


Two Sides of the Same

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M, UST, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: While in NYC for a UN meeting, England is staying with America and locks himself in the only bathroom in America’s apartment. It causes younger nation some existential angst.





	Two Sides of the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Just importing this from tumblr. I'm quite proud of the prose here.

America picks at the carpeting from his spot on the floor, resisting the urge to bang the back of his head on the closed bathroom door he’s leaning against. England has taken himself as a hostage in the only bathroom in America’s New York apartment. America is fairly positive he heard some very muffled sniffling on the other side of the door and so he sits with his back pressed to it, trying to silently will England to forget whatever it is he’s upset about this time with the power of telepathy or something.

There’s a thump against the other side of the door and America knows that England is probably mirroring his position now. A wry, mirthless smirk stretches across America’s lips. He’s got everyone fooled into thinking he can’t read the atmosphere and yeah, sometimes he really can’t, but he knows England and it’s totally not lost on him that even when they’re entrenched in their own private war, they’re still drawn to each other, trying to be as close as possible.

America bites his lip to stifle a groan as all the ways he has ever imagined “as close as possible” between himself and England flood his brain, some fantasies dating back to before his last growth spurt. _Not now_, he tells himself sternly. But later. Definitely later, after he’s talked England down off whatever metaphorical ledge he’s currently standing on and the older nation is safely asleep in America’s guest room, which is actually just America’s office in this apartment with a daybed wedged into it. He hadn’t really ever expected to have company here, but then the UN happened and then the goddamned Special Relationship came with it. When the economy is better, England stays in a hotel, closer to the UN building, but the economy isn’t that great right now, so somewhere, some humans with high enough security clearance in the depths of their respective governments have decided that England can just stay in America’s office.

It’s usually fine, as long as America remembers to put out the kettle and hit up the store to get a fresh box of Twinnings Earl Grey before England gets there. He never stays that long and America doesn’t really live there either, his actual house is in DC. Where there are actual guest rooms. So this particular apartment has become a sort of… neutral ground. In this apartment, they move like two ballet dancers in a tragic production where the two leads are forbidden to touch. England’s been keeping a few sets of clothing in the office/guest room closet for a few decades, which he began doing after an airline lost his luggage once. He keeps a toothbrush in the bathroom and a couple of toiletries from the UK since he claims not to like American brands.

America has never once given into the temptation to use England’s soap. Really. Might’ve done it once or twice by accident, though.

Of course, the aforementioned kettle is in the kitchen and half-empty boxes of Earl Grey have been piling up forever, so it often seems like England lives in the apartment, even when America is there by himself for any given reason. When America is there alone, he indulges himself in illusions of domesticity, pretending England is only away for a little while, like a human who travels internationally for business, and when he comes home to America, they kiss in the doorway and England lets America take him to the bedroom they share and… damn it. Back to _those_ thoughts.

More sniffling, not so muffled this time since England is against the other side of the door. He probably doesn’t think America is right there to hear him.

_Not now_, America tells those thoughts again, _later_. For now, he must bear witness to England’s suffering. And he does know that England is suffering. America is not so much of an idiot that he can’t see it. He suffers also, it’s hard not to right now, given the state of everything in the world. Addendum, he also knows others have it much worse and in many cases, he bears the weight of responsibility for that, but then so does England and why can’t they just be support for each other? Him and England. They could help fix things.

An outright sob sounds inside the bathroom.

America sighs quietly. He knows that this particular situation is not related to the state of the world. It’s more _personal_. America wants to scream, but swallowing hard, he realizes that he’s hoarse from doing that already.

The landlord will likely receive multiple noise complaints from America’s neighbors and he’s honestly kind of surprised that nobody called the cops on them, but he reasons that it’s New York City. Anonymous capitol of the world.

Another sob.

America’s heart hurts. His mind races through a thousand different universes, in many of those universes, they are just Alfred and Arthur, but he loves England madly in every single one of them. For almost as long as he’s been alive, so to speak, he has loved England madly, even when things were not good between their respective governments and citizens, even when they were legitimately bad, America would lie in bed at night, dreaming without sleeping about having England next to him.

For all of the things that America can remember, he can’t remember the last time he told England he loves him. He knows England wants to hear it, but America isn’t sure that England wants to hear it the way America _means_ it. England probably wants to hear “I love you, big brother, thank you for everything you’ve done for me, I’m sorry I don’t listen to you more often” and what America means is, “I’m in love with you, you crazy old man, I always have been. Can I please fuck you senseless on this table in front of everyone so they know you’re mine?” Except not in front of everyone because most of them have had enough of England as far as America is concerned, and when, dear God, _when_ is it going to be America’s turn? He’s already decided that if his turn ever comes, he’s never letting go. Ever.

The sobbing is more or less constant now.

Why does England have to do this? Why can’t they just talk about it? Screw that whole “stiff upper lip” nonsense. America wants to demand to know what good old-fashioned British repression has ever done for England other than turn him into an angry drunk. The back of his head thunks the door before he can think better of it.

“A-America?”

Shit.

“I know you’re out there. Go away.”

Raw vulnerability bleeds into England’s voice and in that instant, America knows why he represses things. England, not the United Kingdom or even England the country, but England, the beautifully infuriating man sitting on chipped linoleum floor of America’s bathroom, has been hurt so many times by so many different things, including America, so how can he blame the man for being so guarded? Tears fill America’s eyes despite himself.

America sighs loudly enough for England to hear. “Okay,” he says, shifting slightly to make it convincing, but he stays right where he is. He thinks that sitting back to back like this is an apt metaphor for the two of them, as he often finds himself looking fiercely forward to the future while England gazes wistfully back at the past. Normally, this contrast benefits the both of them as America will occasionally whirl England around to see how things will, eventually, get better for everyone and England is almost the only one with the ability to turn America’s eyes to history, however briefly, and remind the younger nation that nothing is forever.

Sometimes, only sometimes, in the most secret parts of himself, America longs for the day when it will be someone else who runs the world, even if that someone is China. If it turns out to be Russia though, America might have something to say about that. But when that day comes, America can take his place beside England in the history books as one of the nations who once ruled the world. Let it be someone else’s responsibility. America’s tiredness exceeds his years, both corporeal and historical. Fear keeps him going at this point–namely the fear that if he doesn’t get everyone to buy into the delusion of his exceptionalism, they’ll all see how weak he really is, how broken and fractured and factioned on the inside, and they’ll take advantage.

It’s the kind of thing he wants to talk to England about, get his advice on, preferably one lazy early afternoon after they’ve spent the whole night and a good portion of the morning making love. England would totally know how to reassure him about his eventual, inevitable fall from superpower status and the ever-increasing probability of violence from such an event. In return, America thinks, he could show England that he is still loved and respected, that America is nearly as fascinated with British citizens and their culture as he is with his own. America imagines having the conversation in this apartment, in his bedroom–their bedroom, bringing in tea for England and coffee for himself, while England tries to untangle his own naked body from the sheets. They’d sit across from each other, actually look at each other for once, and England would put his hand on America’s cheek and say something like, _“It’ll be alright, lad. It’s not as bad as you think. You’ll make it through, just as I did, and I’ll be with you the whole time.”_

America doesn’t realize he’s crying until he runs an exasperated hand over his face. Oh.


End file.
